An Uplifting Dog Story

A dog-loving friend who lives in a pleasant, leafy, shady neighborhood in a mid-sized Midwestern city texted me a nice story the other day:

I was outside today and a car stopped with a man and a woman inside (in their sixties, like me), and they asked if I lived here.

They told me they grew up in my house. They were brother and sister. We talked for quite a while and I asked them if they had a dog. She said yes, Buff.

I told them I had his tag. I had found it 30 years ago while I was digging in the yard and I kept it. They gasped and couldn’t believe it. I went inside and got it and gave it to them.

After that I was convinced they weren’t serial killers trying to get access to my house  :-)  so I invited them in.

We went through every room and they told me lots of stories about every room and old neighbors.

My current bedroom was their grandmother’s bedroom.

It all felt spiritual.

Like something else was driving the situation.

Especially the dog tag. When I found it 30 years ago I just couldn’t throw it away because it belonged to a dog, and a dog someone probably loved, so I kept it. It felt wrong to throw it away. But I always had a feeling there was a purpose.

Anyway it was a goosebumpy experience.

They were super nice people.

Oh, and I always worried the the dog was buried on my property because his tag popped up. I didn’t ever want to disturb his resting place.

But Buff isn't buried here. And that’s good to know.

Executive decisions
Something similar happened to me back in Wisconsin. I lived next to a nice couple who were moving their young family to Oregon. As they prepared to sell the house, they were going to be away for a few days, so they gave me a key and asked me to please come over every day and open the windows for a few hours so the house didn't start smelling musty. On the dining room table, on a tablecloth, they had placed some information pertaining to the house and some sales flyers in preparation for the sale.

A day or two later, my doorbell rang. At my doorstep stood a small, smartly dressed elderly woman with white hair. Curiously, she introduced herself in a friendly manner using only her first name (which unfortunately for my story I have forgotten). She said it like she expected me to recognize it, like she was someone I should have heard of.

"I'm a such-and-such!" she said, brightly, naming her last name. Surely I had heard of the such-and-suches? Afraid not.

It turned out she had grown up in the house next door. She had rung the doorbell, but no one appeared to be home, and did I know where the owners were? She was visiting from another State and hadn't been here for many years.

I attempted to call my neighbors to get their permission to let her into their house, but I couldn't reach them.

Time for an executive decision. I decided she was very likely harmless and was probably telling the truth, and anyway I could stay with her while we were inside. As I had about a hundred and fifty pounds on her, I figured I could probably take her if she tried any funny business. So I let her in. Like Buff's owners, she told me some stories about the house and the neighborhood as it existed long ago...who lived where and so forth.

After touring the house, all neatened for the sale, we stood in the dining room, and she told me more about her family. At one time there were many such-and-suches who all lived on our little street, and people related to her had built a number of the houses on the block. Did I know that the reason the neighborhood was called Doctors' Hill was because most of the people in her family had been in medicine? Her father had been the first doctor to build, and then others had followed. But I had never heard the neighborhood called that. Her opinion of my mental capacities seemed to be diminishing. Did I at least know about the people who used to live in my house? No. I had heard the names of two of the owners before me, but that went back only a couple of decades.

Then something strange happened. The box on the dining room table contained old papers relating to the house—remodeling plans, old maintenance receipts, expired deeds, that sort of thing. And underneath all the papers was an old WWII-era passport.

The old woman opened the passport and her eyes widened in astonishment.

"This is my father!" she said. "Look! It's he!"

She told me the story. Her father had been a Christian missionary, and was assigned to a foreign post during WWII. When the day came for him to travel, he couldn't find his passport anywhere. They turned the house upside down and inside out but couldn't find it. His trip was delayed several days while special arrangements were made. The woman said that, as a little girl, she secretly hoped her father wouldn't have to go at all, but after a few days he was able to leave. He was gone for several years and she was a teenager by the time he got back.

She stared for a long time at her father's face in the passport picture, which was as clean and glossy as if it had just been taken. Then she asked me if she could please have the passport.

Ach...time for another of those pesky executive decisions.

Although I was 97% certain my neighbors would want her to have it, I apologized profusely and told her it simply wasn't mine to give. I was just a neighbor looking after the house for a few days—I had no right to make decisions about the disposition of any of its contents. She said she understood. I had her leave her phone number so we could reach her again.

Later, my neighbors called me back. They told me they had found the passport only a couple of years earlier under a heavy bookcase on the third floor—where it must have lain undisturbed for more than sixty years—and had always wondered if it could be reunited with a family member. "I hope you gave it to her," Amy said. I told her I hadn't but that she had left a phone number.

Well, we tried the number several times and left messages, but we never heard from the woman again.

Any time
Have you ever noticed that some people are deeply interested in old photographs while others don't seem to get anything from them? I've noticed over my lifetime that different people vary greatly in their relationships with the past and future. For some people, the past is a rich tapestry of romance and mystery, and runs like an invisible current or an underground stream beneath the present, whereas other people dismiss it all too casually, as if to say, what does any of it matter now?

Similarly, some people have little foresight, and to them the future is a "featureless plain." Whereas to others it is a place of fantastic and limitless possibility: anything could happen at any time, and might.

Mike
(With thanks to L.)

Lens of Interest this week:

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(To see all the comments, click on the "Comments" link below.)
Featured Comments from:

Bahi: "Loved this essay. I’m one of those people who love old photographs, too—perhaps there’s a link."

Sharon: "This is a beautiful post. Thank you."

Alan H: "Love this story! It took me back nearly 40 years ago when my wife and I moved to Vermont. We had bought a house built around 1830 and a strange thing happened the day we moved in. We were both down in the basement doing something when we heard footsteps on the wooden floor above us. We didn't know anybody there, at the time, so it was somewhat concerning. We immediately came upstairs to find about six people standing in our kitchen! Long story short...they were looking for the woman whose family owned the house for 50 years. We kindly explained that we now owned the house and she had moved into an apartment in town."

Mike replies: One of my favorite books of large-format photography is Paula Chamlee's loving portrait of her childhood home, High Plains Farm. I think that's where she tells this story. When her parents were leaving the farm for a week and she suggested that perhaps they ought to lock the doors, they said, "but what if the neighbors need something?"

Lois Elling: "I love stories like these. Thank you for sharing them. Growing up in the '60s our family would often visit my grandmother (my grandfather died when I was very young) at the house in Los Angeles that my grandparents had built in the 1920s. After my grandmother died, a neighbor bought the house. Just a few years ago my sister and I were passing through the area and stopped to get a picture or two of that house, which is remarkably still there on a street full of apartment buildings. A young man came out in the front yard as I snapped pictures, so I called to him and told him why we were there. It turned out his parents had bought the house years ago from that same neighbor and raised several kids there. The kids are grown and some have their own kids now, but that house is still the place where the family gathers. We met his mother and they were nice enough to show us the living room, dining room, kitchen, and back yard. What a wonderful experience and I was very thankful to them for sharing their home. I had showed them a couple of old photos of the house that were on my phone, and later I shared more old pictures of the house. The house number and front porch light were still the same as in the 1930s. It warms my heart to know the house is still full of love."

JOHN B GILLOOLY: "Beautiful post. And a very nice description of what drew me to a life of photography. I am enthralled with images from the past and constantly thinking of the future historical value of images that I capture on a daily basis. And as you suggest in the essay, I am constantly amazed at the wide range of feelings to the past, in general, and historical images in particular. I grew up the first child of a photographer and am lucky to have hundreds-thousands of 5x7 and 8x10 black and white prints of my childhood. I would guess that the only possession that made its way with me to every address I've ever lived, including dorm rooms in college, apartments abroad and in various states, is one Ilford 8x10(250) box that included a sort of greatest hits. The essence of my existence. I am also a huge fan of visiting places of my past. There is such a palpable feeling to be standing in the same spaces that were once so important to your everyday life - houses, schools, playgrounds, fields, etc. Everywhere you look, flashbacks to moments that took place in that particular corner, hallway or room. Moments that are gone to you until you stand in that space and gaze with old eyes upon things that your young eyes once saw daily. I am sometimes saddened that I am the only one that seems to feel the power and emotion in these moments. It's nice to know there are others that appreciate this same thing."

Comments

[Peter Van Dyken]

Beautiful story Mike. As pertains to the future my Father told me from his death bed,”The first five minutes after I die will be the most exciting time of my life.”

[Dan Khong]

Mike

Thanks for sharing the stories. Stories like these often create a "lump" in the throat. At the end of the day, the only things people can bring along with them are memories.

Dan K.

[Doug Chadwick]

One tip for those folks who are thinking about visiting "the old home place" I have found to be helpful. To overcome the reservations that the current owner or caretaker has, bring old photos, and copies that you can give them are even better. I find that really helps to open doors and allay suspicions.

It's also handy if you are prowling around areas not frequented by tourists. If you are looking for locations photographed by Walker Evans or FSA photographers (a common past-time around here) it's helpful to have some prints of the work.

[Paul in AZ]

I once lived in a house in Washington state built in 1908.
Similar experience -strangers at the door saying their parents once lived there. They themselves were too young to remember the house so a tour was pointless.
I gave them some glass plate negatives that I'd found under floorboards in the attic. These may have predated the time when their parents lived there. I don't think they even said a thank you as they left.
An odd encounter.

[Mike Chisholm]

Cue up Springsteen, "My Father's House" ...

Mike

[Bruce Bordner]

I had a vaguely related experience last year with 1972 photos that I put online. I had shot at a burned power station which is now hundreds of feet underwater in Raystown Lake in PA. These may be unique; I can't find any similar images or info.
https://www.flickr.com/photos/brucebordner/albums/72157626000392120 Raystown Powerplant (sorry)
So of course the divers who have recently visited the site contacted me and provided a few of their shots of the current condition. They find my work very valuable. So remember kids - don't throw anything away! It might pay off in 50 years...

[MarkB]

My father died in January at the ripe old age of 98, sharp and lucid to the end. When cleaning his place out, my siblings and I found innumerable mementos from his (and our) past, including photos we'd never seen from his time as a WW2 bomber pilot. We distributed it all equitably, but I must be one of those pitiful "dismiss it all too casually" people, as I really couldn't muster much interest in it. Then I thought of my own children, who hadn't had 50+ years with this man, and revered him. Maybe they will hold my share of the photos and ephemera dearly, and I'm just grieving in a cold and distant way.

[JoeB]

Sorry, you really can't go home again. I know, I tried. A house is no home unless the people you love are home.

[Not THAT Ross Cameron]

Thanks for the yarn.
Mr Molitor has a theory about how people respond to photos. Hopefully he’ll drop by with his own comments.

For my own yarn, I had copies of some photos my great grandfather took when he visited family back in Scotland around 1900 - a little town called Creetown (on the river Cree). Around the turn of the millenium, I went working and travelling for a couple of years around the UK, as many Aussies and other nationalities do. And I went and visited the town. I was able to stand in roughly the same place as my forebears and take photos some hundred years later (using a cheap point & shoot - prior to my interest in photography). In some respects, things had changed little, other than the trees being taller ;)
Same pub was still in town too - if I had been less shy I would have stayed and chatted for a bit.

[Bear.]

I live in an old, narrow Victorian shopfront terrace in the middle of a row in what was still a working class area when I bought it about 30 years ago but is now a fashionable inner-city suburb. At the time I bought it, it was being used a group house for cheap university student accommodation. But the layout was very strange, as all the upstairs internal walls had been knocked out to create one big room, with the walls and ceiling painted black - there were no lights at all - and 20 amp, three-phase power points had been wired into the walls just below ceiling level every few feet. Some 20 years later I caught a taxi-cab home from the airport and when I gave the address, the driver looked at me, said "You're joking." I replied "No. Really. I live there." He apologised and explained that he knew the building intimately. He was an actor by profession and from about 1960 to about 1974, my home had been a small performing arts centre which he had managed - the original downstairs shop was used as the front of house and as a bar and the upstairs room was the stage. He had personally knocked down the original lathe and plaster walls, painted the room black, and supervised the installation of the power-points for lighting effects. I must have looked at him strangely because he hastened to add, "No, no no! Not that type of acting! We held one and two person plays, poetry readings, and that sort of thing."

[ANIMESH RAY]

Mike,
Very nice post.
I had taken a photo of a Navajo man, probably in 1999 or 2001. In 2018 when I was visiting Monument Valley, I saw a man who looked just like the person whom I had photographed nearly twenty years ago, and I showed him the photo on my phone. He thought the photo was of his uncle, who had since died. So he introduced me to his daughter who was nearby. She confirmed that was indeed her father and they didn't have any photo of him and would love to have a print. I mailed them a large print of the photo when I returned. It was taken on a Hasselblad X-PAN. You can see the photo through the link on my name.